Work Text:
It was embarrassing to admit, but the first thing he noticed was the hickeys. Or, to be more precise, the lack thereof.
It’s never been much of a secret among the Marauders, among the Gryffindor house, among, well... anyone, really, that Sirius had a bit of a healthy possessive streak when it came to Remus. Nothing of real concern—he didn’t get jealous, he always trusted Remus and gave him his necessary space, but he was rather fond of holding Remus’ hand or slinging an arm over his shoulder in public. And he never could quite hide the proud little smile his lips naturally formed around the words ‘my boyfriend’. And he did have a habit of leaving pointedly prominent hickeys on Remus’ neck at every given opportunity.
Or, at least, he used to.
Recently, when Sirius did touch him, which was less frequent on the whole, he always kept an incredibly healthy distance between his mouth and Remus’ neck. After years of James snarkily reminding Sirius to ‘leave room for Jesus’ (to which Sirius always replied ‘You’re Hindu, dipshit’) perhaps he had finally taken the lesson to heart. To be honest, Remus was starting to miss the excuse to wear scarves in the middle of summer. Doing it to cover a hickey was fun and mischievous. Doing it for no reason at all made you a pretentious dick.
Other things he missed included waking up next to Sirius. Also, falling asleep next to Sirius. In general, bed-sharing was at an all-time low because Sirius simply could not bring himself to sleep through the night all of a sudden. Instead, he would stay up doing this or that and wake up obscenely early to make breakfast, which was sweet, technically, but also quite out of character for Sirius. Then he would nap on the couch during the day as if surprised by the fact that staying up all night left him tired.
Every day Sirius got paler, too. He was quieter, went still at odd moments. Skittish, like he was keeping something from Remus.
I don’t know why you’re surprised , thought a weary voice in Remus’ head. E veryone’s keeping something from someone nowadays .
Only Remus had thought—well, hoped, he supposed—that with all the war waging outside, the two of them, in their tiny flat with the shutters drawn and the kitchen scrubbed clean from Remus’ anxious habit, Sirius’ flannels strewn on the backs of various chairs throughout the apartment, which Remus could never bring himself to move because it meant Sirius was here , he lived here, with Remus —well, Remus had hoped they would hold steady. The war could take everything else from them—their friends, their futures, their youths—but Remus had hoped, had prayed, had sworn, in quiet moments where he felt like a Gryffindor and also like a fool, it could not take Sirius from him. In that love-blind way, he felt quite deeply that neither of them could die without the other and that they would be the exception to the standard wreckage of trust in nearly every relationship.
That was it, wasn’t it? Remus had thought they would be the exception.
Lily had fallen prey to it, when the strip turned pink. She sent James out to the store to buy milk, swearing to him it could not wait until morning, and called Remus in a panic on the muggle telephone, an old ritual for them. She’d told him she was going to run, her and the baby inside her. To this day, Remus wasn’t sure what the doubt was, whether James would want the child, be fit to raise it, or be willing to leave his fight at the front door and spoon mashed peas into an unwilling mouth. Maybe it was just the way James was changing, his smile a rare treasure rather than a given fact of life. The bags under his eyes, formerly a prize he won temporarily for staying up all night in some frenzied state of genius resulting in antlers or a map, were now perennial. When he said goodbye, he still held you tight and told you he loved you, that hadn’t changed, but before it had simply been because he had love to give to a world that needed it. Now, there was the distinct sense that he did so because he did not know if he’d get a chance to again. Whatever the reason was, Remus had managed to talk Lily down, but still Remus worried about what he would say to James if one day he woke up to an empty house.
Marlene had fallen prey to it, back in spring, when her jacket started to look less like armor and more like a child’s comfort blanket. Dorcas had seen it too, called her on it, because for all of Marlene’s posturing, anyone who knew her knew she was an open wound as much as an open book. She would cut her fingers off if she could not use them to gently tuck Dorcas’ hair behind her ears, she would cut her tongue out from between her lips if she could not use it to sing her younger sister lullabies. She had walking talking pressure points scattered across wizarding society, always at least one out of her line of sight. After the fourth silent dinner of a week, Dorcas had finally snapped and asked Marlene just what she had expected from the war. Marlene had shrugged, sighed, kissed Dorcas softly on the head, and started packing to move back home.
She needed to die with her family.
Drunk one night, Dorcas had admitted to Remus how badly she’d wanted Marlene to stay and fight, because if Marlene was not brave enough, who was? Because were they not worth fighting for? Because if Marlene died beside her family, who would die beside Dorcas? Dorcas had said that last one softly, even through the haze of alcohol too ashamed to say that selfish thought out loud. Remus had held her, and best he could tried to understand, but he still failed to imagine even the possibility of Sirius slowly filling cardboard boxes.
Remus had thought they would be the exception. He thought, if nothing else, they’d be able to talk it out, they would trust each other that much.
He thought of what Dumbledore had said during an Order meeting, the month before.
“It would seem there is a traitor among us.” They had met at the Potter’s that week, so there was a baby playpen next to Dumbledore as he said this, and a Queen poster directly behind him. It made the whole thing seem like a bad play. Dumbledore was an actor trained for the role of comedic relief, nonsense and a twinkling eye and a completely irrelevant factoid about the history of toffee, forced into a role too serious for him to pull off convincingly. The tech crew working on the backdrop had had no budget and done the best with what they had on hand.
“I realize it is not in the nature of any of you to distrust your dearest friends. . .” Dumbledore paused here, awkward as if he already knew what he was saying was not quite true, because Gideon used to always sit right beside Caradoc, and now they stood on opposite sides of the room, and Frank had not met Lily’s eyes in months. “But I must beg of you to proceed with the utmost caution. The security of the Order’s intelligence and plans is the same as the security of the next generation’s future. In times like these, despite our deepest held convictions, we must trust no one.”
Remus stood there, absentmindedly running a washcloth over a dish that had been clean for nearly half an hour now, recalling how everyone had stared at their feet, but Remus had glanced over at Sirius, because he was the one safe to look at. He was the exception.
After that Order meeting, on a dark walk home, Peter had told Remus that it was one of the three of them. He’d heard this from Dumbledore, that He Who Must Not Be Named had his eye on the Potters, because of the prophecy, and the last time he’d found them, the year before . . . well it was too convenient, the way he found them, alone in a cabin out in the country, only briefly out of the relative safety of proximity to the Order to bury James’ parents. They’d been beyond lucky to make it out alive. Only their closest friends had known they’d even gone, until they’d heard the news of what happened. There were only three of those.
It made a certain sort of sense to trust Peter’s intel. He had a way of knowing things, like a rat coming out of the walls, showing up at the right time and right place, seemingly unimportant enough to let secrets slip to. Peter had been the first to know when Remus was desperately wrangling his heart back inside his chest everytime Sirius walked in the room, far back in sixth year. He’d always known who had cheated on an exam, who would be staying at Hogwarts over winter break, and why. Peter had never been much of an agent, never one for action, but he had been a holder of secrets since the day he’d been born, all big ears and quiet deference.
“I know it’s not you,” Peter had said, and Remus wondered just what he’d done to be so trustworthy, “and I know it’s not me.”
There had been a silence, until finally Peter softly, tentatively spoke into the night, “Has Sirius seemed odd to you lately?” He blushed slightly. “I hate to even think about it, only, I suppose we have to, that’s the war. And if anything else were to happen to James and Lily and the baby, I don’t know what I’d do. . . I just worry about Sirius, with all his family, and everything changing so fast. . .”
Remus had let the rest of the walk go in silence, because he wasn’t ready, not yet. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be ready, but slowly, as with most things, his mind made way for the monstrous with a painfully slow pace.
The notion of distrusting Sirius should have felt new, like a shock, sending dishes shattering on the floor in an echo of the shattered trust, but that's not really how it went. The dish never fell and fractured, only splintered infinitesimally under the pressure of a fork clenched too tightly, because Sirius had asked yet again for more information than Remus could give about his missions under the full moon, and why could Sirius not understand that he'd made a promise to Dumbledore? Why did it matter so much for him to know? Why did he have to take it all so personally? Then the splinter grew as Remus rubbed a wiry sponge into it, harsher than he needed to, because Sirius was gone again and he didn't know where and when was he coming back and maybe, maybe, if he took all of his stress, all of his anger out on this one poor plate with its sorry little crack, he wouldn't snap at Sirius when he finally did come home without apology or explanation.
And that was how it fell to pieces, not with fingers slack from shock and slick from soap letting it slip to the tile below, but with subtle wear until it got sauce stuck in the crack, and you didn't like to look at it too much, so you put it up in a cabinet up high and tried your best not to think about it until you needed an extra place setting and you open the door to find only shards of glass.
All that complicated metaphor to say, finally acknowledging the possibility that Sirius might be the traitor was rather anticlimactic.
Sirius came home on time that day, for once, and sighed softly with his eyes closed, leaning against the door. Remus watched him, wondering how he could love someone so much, so so much, in the face of all of it.
When Sirius opened his eyes to Remus at the sink with suds on his sleeves, his shoulders sagged and he sighed again, stepping forward to take the dishes from Remus' hands.
"They're clean, Remus, they're clean." Sirius gently placed the glass on the towel laid out for drying and, after a moment of hesitation, reached out to hold Remus' hands, wrinkled from the water.
Silly as it was, in the light of everything, Remus leant into Sirius, holding their hands between their chests and leaning his head against Sirius' shoulder.
He breathed in a shaky breath, and Sirius slowly moved to rest his hand on the small of Remus' back. Even through his shirt, Remus could feel how cold Sirius' hands were.
After a few breaths, Sirius whispered, "Been a long day, has it?"
Remus laughed. "It's always a long day." He leaned back to look at Sirius, and frowned to notice a smear of blood on his face. Gently, he wiped it away with his thumb and tried not to bite his lip so hard it bled to match. "You've got a cut, dear,"
"Damn, I tried to wash it off in the loo before I came home so you wouldn't. . ." Sirius trailed off, looking guilty.
"Worry?" Remus smiled a bit, getting a washcloth wet in the sink to dab at Sirius’s face. "I'm always going to worry about you, Sirius. Always." Even if you betray us all, he thought, but he batted the thought away because that sort of thinking helped nobody. "Quite impressive that you missed it, though. Honestly, Sirius, all that time you spend looking in the mirror and you couldn't be bothered to notice the bleeding gash across your face?"
Sirius stiffened. "Er, haven't been looking into mirrors much recently, to be honest."
This was a rather odd thing to say, Remus thought, but he smiled and tried again to pull a smile out of Sirius. "Finally gotten that big head of yours deflated enough to walk through doors then? I'll alert the Daily Prophet immediately."
This time, Remus got his wish, and Sirius broke into a small and sheepish smile. "Yeah, well, you deserve all the credit for it, you bastard. Bet they'll give you Order of Merlin just for all the times you knocked me down a peg."
"I think I've gotten plenty of reward for that already." Remus put the washcloth down, satisfied for now, decided on stitching the wound up later, and curled his fingers into Sirius' loose hair along the nape of his neck.
"Yeah, I think James is ready to name his second son after you in gratitude."
"No, Sirius, I—" Remus stumbled. This used to be so easy for them. "I meant you. I meant being with you."
There was a pause, where Remus was oddly embarrassed, as vulnerable as when they were seventeen and not-so-accidentally brushing hands on the sofa. Remus fiddled with Sirius' earlobe and wished he had more bowls to wash.
Finally Sirius hauled himself out of his shock and rejoined the scene with a disbelieving laugh, "You call this a reward?"
He didn't gesture at anything, not the tiny flat, not his broken body, but Remus knew exactly what Sirius meant by this . This, the underlying sense of loss. This, the nights of not speaking. This, the drawn shutters and blood on cheeks, touch rare and then cold.
Remus nodded, because it was true. "Yes, I do," he said, "and I happen to be quite proud of it."
Sirius blinked, and then, like he was giving into something, made a softly helpless sort of sound and kissed him. Remus brought his hand up to cup Sirius' cheek and realized with a start that it was a bit swollen, like back in sixth year when he'd had to have his wisdom teeth removed and the cheeks flared up from all the effort of teeth moving about and adjusting. Briefly, Remus worried that Sirius might have broken his jaw, but decided to save the moment and just be extra careful around the swollen areas.
Fingers threaded into his hair and Remus knew what to expect next like you can't help but hear the beginning of the next song on a record once the track before it ends, even if the song is on an 8-track James made you in fifth year as a birthday gift. Sirius kissed him just a little bit harder and then let his mouth drag across his jaw and down towards Remus’ neck. Normally, this would be the part where Sirius oh-so-casually bit down hard enough to leave a mark (the held out ‘can anybody’ of the choir once the last notes of ‘You and I’ faded out). But of course, things were different now, so Sirius started as if to do this, then froze, mouth hovering over Remus’ skin for an awkward length of time before returning to Remus’ cheek with a jerk.
Remus sighed. “I don’t mind, you know.”
Sirius drew back and frowned, looking oddly frightened. “Don’t mind what?”
“You know.” Remus blushed, frustrated Sirius was making him say it. “When you leave hickeys or whatever. I don’t mind. You don’t have to keep stopping yourself.”
Remus expected Sirius to make some snide comment about werewolves and biting or the bet James and Peter had going that one time to see how long Remus’ neck could go unmarred (no more than 36 hours, back when they were two seventeen year olds, newly dating, driven to distraction) but instead Sirius simply looked at the ground, almost guilty.
“It’s—it’s not—” Sirius ran his hands through his hair, took a long look at Remus, and sighed. “Fuck,” he finally said. “You’re gonna find out eventually, I don’t know why Dumbledore thought I could keep it from you, I don’t even want to keep it from you it’s just—” Sirius took one more shaky breath. “I got bit. The other week, when I was away for a few days? I said it was for a fishing trip with James but we both knew it was a mission because I’ve never been fishing before in my life and hate the outdoors and also sometimes pronounce ‘bass’ incorrectly? I was patrolling Knockturn Alley and I got bit. By a vampire. So now I’m, you know. Yeah.”
“You’re . . . ? Oh—” Finally, things slid into place for Remus. The insomnia, the paleness, the weird mirror comment. Sirius looked on like his life was on the line, but all Remus could do was burst into a laugh, suddenly barely breathing, tears down his cheeks.
“That’s—” Remus managed between his hysterics, “that’s why you’ve been avoiding Dorcas!”
Sirius managed to look guilty, confused, and concerned all at once. “I haven’t been avoiding her! It’s just. . . she wears that crucifix every day . Why? Surely God allows her some off days? It gives me headaches!”
This did nothing to abate Remus’ laughter. “Sirius, you have to tell her that, she thinks you hate her.”
Slowly, cautiously, Sirius started to laugh too. “Oh God, how do I explain that? Fuck.”
“And the other night, when I made garlic bread—”
“I felt so bad—”
“And the other day when you had to wait for Gideon to invite you in even though you have a key?”
“I was shit sure you were gonna figure it out—”
“God,” Remus laughed one more time and finally sighed. “I’m so relieved, I—” Now Remus took his turn at looking guilty. “Well, I knew you were keeping something and with the secret missions and weird hours and the way things had been—I’d started to worry. . .”
“That it was me? That I might be the spy?” Sirius looked oddly intent, so Remus only nodded, slowly.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you, I—Dumbledore, and Peter—fuck, Remus, I’m sorry.”
There was a pile of glass, hidden away in the cupboard, which had once been two whole dishes. Remus could reach in and pull the remains out and cut himself on the sharp edges, and perhaps most would not, but he rather thought the endeavor worth the blood, piecing them back together.
So Remus only sighed and brought his hand up to Sirius’ cheek again, running his thumb over the cut. “It’s alright now, Sirius. We’ll be alright.”
“Peter told me—he said that if it was you, then I would never suspect, because I love you too much and I trust you too blind, he said you were the only option—”
“Shh, I know, I know he told me the same thing. . .” Remus pulled Sirius in close and ran his fingertips across Sirius’ scalp, then slowly, as they put the pieces together in tandem, they both froze in each other’s arms.
“So that means. . .” Remus whispered, but Sirius suddenly jumped into action, grabbing Remus by the hand and reaching for his keys.
“We need to go. Right now. I don’t know how much time we have. I’ll explain on the way.”
On the motorbike, over the sound of the wind, Sirius explained the plan Dumbledore proposed after the prophecy came about, how he was supposed to be secret keeper, until Peter stepped in. How he made good points, about Sirius’ obvious weakness for Remus, how too many death eaters knew Sirius far too well, how everyone would know Sirius was the secret keeper, because everyone knew how James and Sirius were with each other, and, well, Peter had always been a secret keeper, in the more literal sense of the phrase, hadn’t he? Didn’t it seem like the clever thing to do, the way to save the day?
They had cast the spell only a few hours ago.
Peter’s flat was an orderly thing, just like his bed back in the Hogwarts dorms had been. Every game night he’d hosted, every time Remus had rushed over to his to talk about the ending of some book or what they’d heard about what Mary did with Gideon or whatever the distraction of the day was, it had been pristine—the dishes done and neatly stacked, blankets folded over the backs of sofas in triangles. He’d always said that a tidier space made for a tidier mind, made it easier to think. Sirius had teased him about this, but always been careful to wash his own dishes and put them away when he was over.
Only when Remus and Sirius walked in the door, with nothing but a hurried Patronus sent to Dumbledore and a half baked plan, they saw bloodied clothes strewn around on the floor, a couch cushion dislodged from its place, teacups and sauce covered dishes out on the table and stacking up in the sink. Remus suddenly felt very cold.
Peter stumbled out of his bathroom with his wand in hand, casting his expulso at the same moment Sirius cast his petrificus totalus , but not fast enough to hit Remus before Remus stunned him, sending his own petrificus totalus and expelliarmus . Only once Remus was satisfied that Peter was completely incapacitated did he glance back to check on Sirius, finally breathing again. Sirius was slowly rising from the dent he’d left in the wall Peter had sent him into. He stood on a newly twisted ankle and rubbed a hand along his swollen cheek and Remus had never loved him more.
Sirius walked forward carefully and knelt down to be eye level with Peter’s frozen face of horror, and for a moment, the room mourned. They, the three of them, held a moment of silence and looked about to wonder how they’d gotten there, all the way from sharing chocolates over sheets (bedsheets, warm, and homework sheets, crumpled,) and easy smiles. All the way from the deepest trust they had come, and what a journey it had been. They mourned. Then Sirius looked up to Remus and they nodded at one another, an ‘amen’ and back to business. There would be no weakness henceforth, it had been concluded.
“Here is what is going to happen, Peter,” Sirius said to the statue that had once been a man, once been a rat, once been a friend, once been a traitor. “In a few moments, Albus Dumbledore is going to show up here to pay us a visit. If he is as good and kindly of a man as we’re taught to believe, then I suspect he will offer you a deal. He will ask you to triple cross yourself, tell us how to finish off your master, in exchange for protection. Naturally, the question you will ask yourself is whether or not you are more frightened of your master or of Dumbledore. A natural line of thought, certainly, but faulty. What you should really be asking is: are you more frightened of your master, or of us?”
And then, in perfect tandem, Remus and Sirius smiled, baring two sets of sharpened canines.
“Remus, what do you think happens to men who get bit by a werewolf and a vampire?”
“I don’t know Sirius, but I sure as fuck don’t envy the man who finds out.”
Sirius laughed his cruelest laugh, the one he used to give Snape back when they were both little, before Snape had any real power to wield. “We could unpetrify you, to ask what you think happens to men who get bit by two dark creatures. We could make you swear you’ll do exactly as we say. But there’s a chance you would lie. It would be foolish of you, but I think you’ve proven quite well so far that you are more than capable of foolishness, so you might lie. And Peter,” Sirius put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, the first indicator of any former warm relationship, “I think it’s safe to say you will never lie to Remus or I again. Never us and never,” his hands turned to claws digging into Peter’s skin, “ ever James. That sound safe to say to you, Remus?”
“Sounds safe to me, Sirius. Same can’t be said of Peter though.”
A knock on the door came, and with it, a spreading grin across Sirius’ face. “No, I don’t believe it can,” he said, then, louder, “Just a moment professor!” as he got up to let Dumbledore in.
Dumbledore took him away and transported him to a safer location to unpetrify him, then offered him a choice. He told Remus and Sirius not to count their chickens before they’d hatched, but they knew what his answer was going to be.
On October 31st 1981, Voldemort was defeated. There were parties in the streets, owls flying all about the muggle cities, and dozens of people dressed in cloaks having the time of their lives, but of course, they must have just been overzealous about Halloween, according to the muggles who saw them.
On October 31st 1981, the Potter family, safe and well, sat on the couch in Remus and Sirius’ living room catching up and coming back to life from their slow death in hiding. Baby Harry sat on his godfather’s lap as Remus rested his head on Sirius’ shoulder. Lily gripped Remus’ hand and James kept his arm around Sirius for the whole night. They talked far past Harry’s bedtime, laughing about miscommunications and fangs, speaking in hushed tones about friendship and trust and a young boy who used to turn into a rat just to sneak them food from the kitchens. They talked about hope, about the future they thought they’d never get, and their whole lives ahead of them.
On October 31st 1981, Remus gently reminded Sirius that while it had been an excellent threat, realistically, a werewolf probably could not be turned into a vampire as well, and in fact Sirius could feel quite free to carry on as he had prior to being bitten when it came to matters of kissing and necks. Sirius smiled wide and did as he was told.